Stacks Image 34
Bass – Andy Dolan
Drums – Roger Diamond
Guitar [Lead], Backing Vocals – Knox (2)
Keyboards, String Arrangements – Chris Randall
Vocals, Guitar – Paul Roland
Violin – Maurice Memmott
Additional Musicians – Brian Gould, James Blomfield, John Daniels, Simon Balestrini
Artwork By – Jon Greves - Lady Butler
Producer – Chris Ashman, Graeme Quinton-Jones, Paul Roland
Recorded 1984
Label: Aftermath Records

Death Or Glory,
Burnt Orchids,
The Puppet Master,
Captain Blood,
Green Glass Violins,
Ghost Ships
Death Or Glory
In the cruel half light the lines are drawn,
While the mist hangs low in the early dawn.
Then a cry goes up and the colours too,
And the Eighth Hussars ride into view.
Down through the ages, time after time,
The flower of youth cut down in their prime,
Each century - death or glory.
A flash of steel and the mounted Greys,
Cut through the smoke and cannon haze.
Musket breath and sabre blade,
Tear tunic cloth and ornate braid.
A reckless ride for lost ideals,
Ending on the thorns of steel
Wrap the flag, sound recall,
A trophy for the Mess Club wall.
Burnt Orchids
Lying by the river bank in summer’s evening glow
I heard the tower clock strike Five
in the playing fields below
‘Dance’, that’s what I say to you
‘Dance’ before your time is through.
Father grew orchids then in a humid conservatory,
He tried to teach me but I failed
each time and he became displeased.
I nurtured then from a tiny seed a belladonna bloom
And at the garden party he smelt its strange perfume.
The Puppet Master
Behind a yellow lit window at the back of the square,
A wizened old man with ashen grey hair,
His grandfather clock strikes the hour of twelve,
The puppets are hanging from hooks on the shelf,
The Burgemeister is staggering home,
The Child-catcher, he walks on alone.
A hoary wretch with murderous intent,
Who glanced over his shoulder where'er he went,
Is taking a knife from a sawdust filled drawer,
Then he walks down the hall to the twisted wood door.
But while he is upstairs there is movement below,
The patter of tiny feet, louder it grows,
They're climbing the stairs with painted fixed grins,
Axes in hands, arms on jointed crude pins.
Next morning the puppets are back on their shelves, And they find the old man who kept to himself,
But a new puppet hangs in the bay window now,
Its garish red face stares at the wires from its brow.
Captain Blood
The London road is treacherous and carriage wheels sink swift in mud
And many men have rued the day they crossed blades with Captain Blood
Newgate gaol had held him once, but not for long and ne’er again
They say he knew Dick Turpin well like Tyburn knows rogues and highwaymen.
Beneath the inn’s oak panelled floor he heard the militia pounding upon the door
He sealed the sheaves with seal and red waxen stud
Entitled them ‘the life and times of Captain Blood’.
Where the dark streets wind in Cairo,
Where the howling jackal mourns,
There the bazaar alley beggars
Twist their limbs into the wind.
Where the fan blades turn in Cairo,
In the swirling evening heat,
Lemon teas in the cafe,
Parchment scraps in the street.
In the Grand Hotel in Cairo,
Grizzled men sell contraband,
Hurry, hear the Half-tracks crawling,
Like insects through the sand.
Shadows run like ink over dunes to dark the Nile,
Shadows run like ink to the Valley of the Kings.
Green Glass Violins
His face was cracked like candlewax,
his mouth was thin Iike wire,
The tormented young composer threw
his papers into the fire.
By the flickering flame his fingers stroked the clavinet,
While throbbing gently grew the drone of string quartets.
The falcon birds of winter were screaming in the trees,
While rain it broke, beaded like chains on window glass like grease
From a panel in the study waII behind the candelabra,
He removed a small cigar box, within - a miniature orchestra.
It’s always raining, it’s always raining
Running down canvas to grass
Peering through the darkness, straining just to hear him
Hear he comes now to open for the night
The Funhouse emporium of sweet delights
The Funhouse welcomes one and all tonight.
While the world is sleeping, curled in cold contentment
The funhouse promises to please,
Candy for the children, toys that will amaze them,
And something for the lonely and the lost.
Leave the dark behind you, the suffocating silence,
The babbling chatter of fools
See the freaks! The future!
Indulge in every pleasure!
Open your eyes to light, your ears to sound.
The Funhouse emporium of sweet delights
The Funhouse welcomes one and all tonight.
Ghost Ships
Jack he sits alone by the waterfront,
Waiting for the ghost ship to come,
All his bags are packed for a voyage
from which he knows he will never return.
Looming through the fog glides the Ghost ship
Rotting from crows nest to keel,
Not a soul was seen to steer her,
Save a corpse lashed to the wheel.
The horned moon is pinned by its splintered mast,
Grey torn shrouds that once were sails,
Dead men stir from their sleep in the hold
their jaws lined with dust, their song but a wail.
Their mouths hung by threads,
their eyes are a hollow,
Calling Iike demons, restless in chains,
A ghost ship cursed to sail on forevermore,
Timbers shriek but not with the strain.